At Your Pleasure

  He was glad of it. He remembered that scent, the special mix made of aromatic balsam and the wax from Hodderby’s beehives. In the stone entry hall, too, he had been caught off balance by memories. The old butler, Hooton, still answered the door, now with the aid of a cane. The unicorn tapestry next to the stair, the echo of his boots on the stone—the sense of familiarity had cut through his fatigue like a blade, spearing him straight in the gut.

  It had made his manner colder than required. He had no complaint against the household, only the master—who was absent, Hooton had stammered. But Lady Towe was in residence.

  There was another unwelcome surprise.

  But irrelevant, he told himself.

  He went to the window and looked out over the darkened parkland. A distant flicker of light in the trees caused him to tighten his grip on his goblet and lean closer to the glass. As a precaution, he had left Lord John Gardiner and a handful of outriders to stand watch from a quarter-mile away until he determined that their reception at Hodderby would be peaceful. Either the fool had disobeyed his orders and lit torches, or someone else was lurking in the wood.

  It could not be David Colville. Not yet. Reports had placed him in Calais two days ago.

  Perhaps the lady of the house had been expecting a midnight visitor. Did she look out some window upstairs in search of this light?

  For her sake, he hoped not. Her presence here was not, in itself, suspicious; it was only logical that after the death of her husband, she had returned to her family home. But if she was involved in this plot, he would spare no concern for her. He would do what he must here, no matter the cost.

  As he stared into the darkness, it came to him that another man in his place might feel a measure of dread. In his youth, he had been a friend to the man he now hunted, and to the woman abovestairs . . . more yet. Another man might well feel distaste for the current necessity.

  Another man, finding himself at Hodderby again, might recall the boy he had once been, in this place—idealistic, impassioned, full of hope. A fool worth mourning, perhaps.

  But Adrian felt nothing. That moment in the entry hall had been brief and unwelcome. It was over.

  Sometimes he wondered at this numbness. More often it proved quite useful.

  The door opened; leather creaked and throats cleared as his men rose. He took a long drink of his ale, swallowing before he turned.

  The Dowager Marchioness of Towe entered the room. Adrian chose instead to focus on the man at her elbow. Here was an amusement, he thought: to find the old steward, Montrose, still on his feet, still fat as a Turk, triple chins aquiver with self-importance.

  The maid that followed them carried a lamp. As the marchioness halted, the girl lifted it to show her ladyship to the company.

  He was prepared for her, but his men were not: one of them sucked in an audible breath. The marchioness was too dark and small, her black brows too heavy and her jaw too bold, to qualify as beautiful. But her body was a spectacle: it would have done a barmaid proud, even in this prim gown the color of blood. The lamp’s glow painted the ripe curve of her bosom and the fullness of her cheek. It drew crimson sparks from the rubies she wore at her throat.

  Since it was pressing near to midnight, she would have been abed upon their arrival, or ready for it. Those jewels had been donned mere minutes ago, to remind her visitors of her station.

  She would have done better, of course, to disarm them by appearing sleepy-eyed and tousled, in a lace robe that slipped off the shoulder, wearing slippers with no heels, the better to emphasize how small, how negligible, she was.

  But she had never been skilled at such games. As a girl she had scorned them. Later, after her marriage . . .

  For whatever reason, she had grown quiet as a nun. No wit, the court’s verdict had run. Adjudged to be rustic and tedious company, she had made no effort to persuade London otherwise.

  Adrian had never disputed the other courtiers’ judgments. He shared no opinions at all on the question of the marchioness.

  In the inconstant light that rippled from the sconces along the walls, she was taking a moment to spot him. He waited, ignoring the curious glances from his men when he did not move forward to greet her. Despite her silence and the fortune around her throat, she looked to them, no doubt, harmless: a petite siren’s body paired with a girlish face, given to blushes, dominated by large, round eyes.

  As her gaze found his, her shoulders stiffened. For a brief moment, her alarm was obvious.

  Yes, he thought. You know better than to expect kindness from me now.

  He offered her a slight bow.

  “My lord Rivenham,” she said. She abjured curtsying for a brief bow of her own, the dip of her head showing him the shining crown of her black hair. The face she lifted was unreadable to him, but he had grown accustomed to that; over the past six years, in crowds, across rooms, it had looked to him, when he had happened to look, like the mask cast to commemorate a dead woman. Attractive, albeit in an unusual way. But lifeless.

  He knew enough of her late husband to guess at the cause. For her sake, Adrian supposed he was glad she’d been widowed.

  “My lady Towe,” he said. There was no call here for courtesies; they had determined that, tacitly, during their encounters in town. “Your steward will have told you the purpose of our visit. We will require lodging and provisions.”

  She stared at him. The light did not provide an exact view of her eyes, but they were gray, penetrating and clear like her voice. What London mistook for coldness was, in fact, a powerful self-possession. “I understood you come to make search of the premises. What provisions could you require for such a simple task?”

  “I am glad to hear it will be simple,” he said. “As to the question of provisions, if you do not understand the requirements of a traveling party, your steward no doubt can explain it to you.”

  By her impassive expression, the jibe did not register. She turned to confer in a low voice with Montrose. Adrian grew aware of the whispers of his men, who had perceived the undercurrent but had no hope of understanding it.

  “The stables have room enough for your horses and your men besides,” she said. “If you—”

  “No,” he said. “We will stay in the house.”

  She remained silent.

  “We will require two private chambers in addition to the lodging for my men,” he continued. “One of the Marquess of Barstow’s sons accompanies us. Lord John will be arriving in the morning.” The boy had whined the entirety of the journey; let him have a taste of a night watch, and a true reason to complain.

  She took a step toward him, her maid with the lamp hurrying to follow. “I thought you had come to search the house,” she said in a cutting voice. “If you mean to seize it, and my authority as well, then pray do me the favor of announcing it plainly.”

  He allowed himself a slight smile. Once, her bold speaking had fascinated him. He had imagined it the product of a mind that ranged freely and a spirit that quailed at nothing.

  But her boldness was nothing so brave. Like a mule, she would persist stubbornly in her duty, never questioning it, until she dropped dead in the harness.

  Indeed, for all he knew, her brother had put her to work in his plot.

  The thought darkened Adrian’s mood. He felt a dull throb in his shoulder, an old wound, gifted long ago by her brother, that had never healed entirely. He had ridden twelve hours or more today, through rain and wind, and he was more exhausted than he’d thought: his body was sore and so was his temper.

  “Plainly, then, madam, in language you will understand,” he said. “I come to do the king’s bidding. I am his agent in this matter and you will treat me as such. That is your only duty: obedience.”

  Over the crackling of the fire, he heard the sharp breath drawn by her maid. But she never moved.

  “Very well,” she said after a moment. “Montrose, you will instruct Hooton to find places for these men in the east wing, and see their horses stabled. Yo
ur lordship, if you would be so kind”—her sarcasm was delicate—“may my household be given to know how long we will be graced by the king’s agent?”

  “That I cannot say.” As long as it took, he thought. David Colville had been asking after ships in Calais. This piece of stupidity he would soon compound, for his arrogance would not allow him to remain hidden once in England. He would imagine himself capable of overpowering a small contingent of soldiers. Soon enough, he would make an appearance at Hodderby.

  “I see.” The marchioness hesitated. “Then perhaps you will wish me to absent myself. I can withdraw to a cousin’s estate—”

  “Oh, no.” It was coming to him that he could not have planned this ambush better: she would make an excellent lure for her wayward brother. Indeed, once David Colville learned the identity of his sister’s guest, rage might lead him directly to the front door. “Forgive me for not making myself clearer. For the remainder of our stay, this household will not stir beyond the grounds.”

  She took the lamp from the maid and lifted it, as though to see him more clearly. Instead, she showed him herself: her owl’s eyes, wide and pale and startled; the thick black brows that a vainer woman would have plucked; the grave line of her bowed lips, and the pulse beating too rapidly in her throat. “I—you cannot mean—but that sounds as though we are under arrest!”

  “So it does,” he said. “Effectively, so you are.”

  2

  Stay a moment,” Rivenham said as Montrose ushered out the soldiers. “I must speak with you.”

  Speak with me, Nora thought with a hysterical flicker of humor. Once, those words had meant everything to her. I must speak with you, he had whispered that day in the meadow, right before he had laid her down amidst the sweet-scented grass. He had pushed his face into her hair, so his damp breath warmed her throat. For the first time they had spoken of love.

  He had been no more than twenty, she a year younger. Children, really.

  What a wild, foolish, stupid child she had been!

  Yet, for so long after her marriage—for so many endless nights after that first glimpse of him in London, with some woman on his arm touching him as though he were hers, while his eyes passed by Nora as though she were invisible—for so long she had burned to hear him say those words to her again. To know that she was needed; that she could give him what no other woman could; that he loved her yet.

  But time had made her wiser. She knew now that a man’s need for a woman was no special compliment. Men had endless needs. Her father, her brother, her late husband—all of them impatiently had required her attention day after day, year after year. She had grown wise enough not to be flattered by need. She had learned to be grateful, instead, for silence and indifference.

  As she sat by the fire watching Lord Rivenham prowl the room, she was proud to find no curiosity in herself regarding his need to speak with her. Indeed, she took his words in the same manner that he had spoken them—coldly.

  “How large is your household?” he asked. “Count those who sleep in the stables.”

  “Forty-eight souls,” she said.

  He nodded. His hand passed lightly over objects as he paced: the glass-fronted cabinet of china; the japanned vase that sat atop the small table by the window; the velvet-cut arras cloth that stretched along the wall. He looked out of place in the rough clothing of the road: high boots of brown leather cuffed above his knees; dark breeches, dark waistcoat, a black wool jacket that flared out to reveal the glint of his sword hilt as he turned.

  He looked like a barbarian, and she loathed not only his questions but his very presence here. How easily he had decided, at his own convenience, that he no longer wished to ignore her! Worse, she had no choice but to accede to his decision, for he came from the king.

  “I will allow you twenty people,” he said. “The rest, all who are not necessary for the running of the household, will be dispatched to their villages for the remainder of our stay.”

  The order fired an anger that astonished her. It was not her way any longer to submit to tempers, but it took great effort to keep hold of her composure now. “There is no one who is not necessary to this household. Else I would have dismissed them already.” Moreover, most would have nowhere to go: after a summer of floods that imperiled the crops of corn and wheat, no household would welcome them.

  “Then your decision will be difficult,” he said.

  “So will your breakfasts and suppers,” she said, “and your laundering as well.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in acknowledgment as he turned toward her. She found herself resenting even the way he moved: with a sort of liquid grace that had won him a host of admirers, all the way up to her majesty, who had favored him especially for dancing. The Queen’s Delight, they used to call him in London. Her majesty had loved nothing better than the attention of talented, pretty men, and Adrian had always been that: tall and broad-shouldered, fashioned in lean, taut lines, with silver-pale hair and slumberous green eyes.

  But pretty no longer described him. He looked weathered now, hardened, in the way of soldiers who slept in the open. Beneath the broad bones of his cheeks, his face hollowed; the set of his jaw conjured grimness, and his neck was corded with muscle. His eyes remained as thickly lashed as a woman’s, but as he regarded her now they glinted with the sort of malicious intelligence that women were not allowed to claim.

  He looked like a handsome stranger, and not a kind one.

  “You will find a way,” he said. “All across the kingdom, the Marchioness of Towe is reputed for her housekeeping.”

  But not for much else, his tone implied.

  Unblinking, she stared at him. She knew the low regard in which the court’s more glittering circles held her. Was she meant to care that his shallow, vain, foppish friends thought her cloddish?

  Perhaps he did not allude to the court’s judgments, though. Perhaps he meant to wound her with an older reference. She could still recall the day she had railed at him in the wood. I am to tally accounts and stitch seams until I am gray, she had raged. Counting bottles of port and overseeing the making of soap—if I am lucky enough to survive the childbed. What woman should look forward to marriage? Why celebrate such an end?

  Childish complaints. But she still might have avoided that end, if only she had never met him.

  The thought echoed in her head, growing ludicrous. No woman of sense would envy a spinster’s uncertain lot. She took a long breath to calm herself. Reputed for her housekeeping. The mockery seemed sharper by the moment, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing it register.

  To her relief, he turned away to resume his inspection of the room. “When did you return to Hodderby?” he asked.

  She sat back. She had returned as soon as she had been able, but her path had not been direct from London. Her mother-in-law had insisted on detaining her in Hertfordshire for three long months after Towe’s death, putting her every morning to prayer in the chapel, bidding her beg God for an heir, until finally it had become clear even to the old woman that Nora’s womb was empty.

  The Marchioness of Towe is reputed for her housekeeping. But for all her efforts, for all the bitterness she had swallowed to do her duties smiling, she had failed at the most important task of a wife.

  The failure had not gladdened her, but there had been a strange justice in it, one that philosophers might have appreciated.

  She cleared her throat. “Why do you wish to know?”

  He paused before a portrait of an ancestor, stiff in an Elizabethan ruff. She watched him study the painting with growing anger. Do not pretend such interest in it, she thought. You have seen it before.

  “I didn’t know you had returned,” he said. “It interests me.”

  “My decision to return interests you? Where did you imagine I would go?”

  He smiled slightly. “What interests me is the fact that I did not know of it. Did you come in secret?”

  She stiffened. “I did not. I came near
to five months ago, with no small party of outriders. And why should it surprise you? Is it your call to keep track of me?”

  “My call?” He turned toward her, lifting a silver-blond brow. Once these Gallic mannerisms of his had lent him a fey air. But now that his face had become a man’s, the effect seemed more calculated and intimidating. “No, of course not. But you have always interested me, my lady. Perhaps you recall it.”

  Her skin prickled as though someone had walked over her grave. His tone was a horrible mismatch to his words. He alluded for the first time in years to matters long past, but he did so lightly, mockingly, as though their shared history were a joke he had heard in a tavern.

  She laid a hand to her cheek and felt the heat there. This evidence of her blush enraged her: it suggested he had some power over her yet. Worse, it showed to him that he might.

  “You know my father is not here,” she said. “I fear the new king has sent you on a fool’s mission.”

  He did not reply to this. “You say you came five months ago.”

  After a moment, she nodded. Had her answer suggested something to him? She cast her mind back, but could think of nothing significant about April past, save that Parliament had finally set in motion the impeachment proceedings against her father. But Father had already fled to France by then. He was innocent of wrongdoing—a faithful member of the High Church, and a true servant to his country—but with his Whig enemies come to power under the new king, the verdict against him had not surprised anyone.

  “I would have come sooner,” she said, “but after Lord Towe died, I remained with his mother for a time.”

  “How dutiful,” Rivenham murmured.

  It did not sound like a compliment, and she felt herself bridling again. How odd, after so many years, to converse with him in this way. From love to silence to hatred, with nary a word between.

  One of his long-fingered hands settled on the back of a chair as he faced her, his heavy signet ring catching the firelight. Four years ago, the death of his elder brother had made him the earl. Some whispered that he had expedited this process by smothering his brother with a pillow as the man lay witless with fever.